Never Over
by sinsandshadows
Summary: Michael and Selene have surivied the battle with Viktor, what what happens now? What will they do when Marcus awakens, the Death Dealers revolt, and Michael starts having nightmares?
1. It's not over

"It's not over."  Her voice was cold and matter-of-fact.  It reminded Michael of glass, actually, that tone.  Truth passed through it, but no emotion.  He supposed that she had grown used to hard truths over the centuries.  But that didn't change the fact that life as they'd known it was over for them both.

"No," he agreed breathlessly.  He knew as well as she that it was just beginning—better, even.  She had lost her home and father figure, while he had lost everything that was familiar to him—even his humanity.  He was something new, and he was sure that even with the Elder vampire dead, there were those out there who wished him the same.  That was a sobering thought.  He'd been a doctor, devoted to saving lives…and now?  What was he now?  Just some sort of freak.

Michael glanced over, watching Selene grip the steering wheel of her new Jaguar (it seemed that even on the run, Selene had infinite resources) with such force that her already pale knuckles were bone white.  She may have grown accustomed to hard truths, but that didn't make them any easier to bear.  Centuries of life didn't teach a person to deal with something that couldn't be dealt with.

"We can't go back to the mansion.  Even with Viktor…especially with Viktor….  They won't allow us to live."

"I know," replied Michael quietly.  It was taking all his strength not to ask the question that burned in this thoughts from the moment he'd become…whatever he was.  _What are we going to do now?  He wouldn't ask it, wouldn't put it to words, but he knew they were both thinking it._

They were little more than strangers still; strangers who shared and inexplicable connection.  They had sacrificed so much for each other, and yet it wasn't over.  By killing Viktor, Selene had avenged her family's murder, but it had made her forever outcast from the vampire nation, from the only people who had a chance at understanding her.

Michael, on the other hand, didn't mind uprooting his life and moving somewhere no one knew him.  He'd done it once before, after all.  After her death.  He'd left New York and moved here, to Budapest, a city where he could forget.  Or try to let go and move on, whatever.  Or lose himself so deeply in work that the feelings of loss were distant, as if they belonged to another person.

No, he didn't mind restarting his life…but he couldn't help feeling responsible for the lycans.  Maybe it was some remnant of Lucien's memories, or perhaps it was that he knew that it was the fallen commander's last wish.  Either way, something inside Michael didn't want to abandon them to the Death Dealers, who he knew would come.  They knew no other way.

And yet he wanted—needed—to be near Selene.  She was his anchor, his solid ground in the middle of a vast dark ocean that begged to swallow him whole and keep him forever.  And he got the feeling that he would become her anchor as well, in a way.  At least, that's what he dared to hope.

A thought occurred to him all of a sudden, and he chuckled.  The pale Death Dealer glanced over at him like he was crazy.  Perhaps he was.  "Sorry," he responded.  "It's just…you're driving."  A blank look was his only answer.  "I mean, you're driving, and we have no idea where we're going.  I guess that just…I don't know.  It's ironic, or something."

Selene turned back to the road.  "I'm taking you to a safehouse," she replied, her accented voice betraying no emotion.

"Jesus Christ, another one?  You going to chain me to a chair this time too?" he spat, slightly bitter.  "Are we actually going to be safe this time?"

"There's nobody following us.  I've checked.  No one knows where we're headed, and I can't see any reason for them to search for us there.  We'll be safe enough."

Michael was relieved that they weren't leaving the city; though he wasn't sure he trusted Selene's assurances of safety.  He looked out the window of the Jag, up to the nearly-full moon.  It was waning, but he still felt it calling to him.  He knew all he had to do was reach out to it, and he'd become that…thing…again.  The monster that now dwelled just under his skin.  He didn't want to become that thing ever again, but to save Selene…he'd Change in a second.  The beast in him had marked her for its own.  She was his to protect in a way that had nothing to do with reason, and everything to do with instinct.

She was always so calm, like nothing in the world could faze her.  Michael often wondered what went on behind her chocolate orbs, and most of the time came to the conclusion that he didn't want to know.  What happened to a person when they lived in a society that wouldn't accept weakness?  When they had lived that way for centuries?  Sometimes he imagined that Selene had forgotten how to feel anything.  He understood that, at least.  After losing his wife, he'd wanted to do the same.

But then he would catch a fleeting glimpse of something in her eyes, some hot emotion, and he knew again why he needed her so badly.


	2. The devil's house

Okay, first off, a HUGE thank you to everyone who commented.  You guys are completely fantastic and inspiring.  I don't know if this is true for other authors, but the more reviews I get, the faster I write.  So keep them coming J

Secondly, I believe that I forgot my disclaimer on the first chapter.  So I'll say right now: I do not own Underworld or any of the characters from the movie.  I promise that I'm only borrowing them for the duration, and I'll try to return them as good as new.

And now, the story:

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_A large flask, filled with a cloudy bluish liquid.  A few drops of viscous, dark red blood added to the vial and stirred gently.  The blood made lazy spirals in the fluid, twisting and dancing for him.  If only there were more…_

_A face, twisted with awesome fury and unquenchable rage.  Viktor's face.  A taloned hand flying toward his face.  Intense pain.  Darkness._

_Blood mixing with liquid, turning black.  The ill-fated, awful black of failure once again.  After all the research, all the tests, all the subjects…still black._

_The grim face of a young man.  An American.  Longish light brown hair that fell into his hazel eyes.  Still young, for a mortal.  A descendent of Corvinus._

_A leather-clad Death Dealer, armed with identical Beretta pistols filled with poisonous silver rounds.  Bullets flying through the air and exploding through flesh.  Screams of agony as the projectiles found their mark._

_Blood in the vial, mixing with the liquid…and turning purple.  Success!  Lucien would be pleased.  We possess the key now…_

Marcus' eyes flew open, yet instead of the recovery chamber, they perceived only darkness.  He tasted thick, strange blood on his dry, weathered lips—like nothing he'd ever tasted before, not in millennia of life.  Not human blood for certain, yet not the rich elixir of vampire blood either…but somehow similar.  Lycan blood?  But how was that possible?  The Crypt was guarded day and night.  Not to mention that their two races had been at war for centuries.  What could a lycan stand to gain from awakening an Elder?  A lycan…scientist, at that?

The memories the blood had bestowed upon him were fragmentary and incoherent, but Marcus was able to grasp enough to make a few things frighteningly clear.  First and foremost, Lucien was somehow still alive, which could only mean that Kraven, the Death Dealer who'd supposedly slain the lycan commander years ago, was a traitor.  To compound the horror, the lycans had been toying with creating abomination—a hybrid.  The very thing which had incurred Viktor's wrath and begun the war in the first place.  The other thing that was evident was that the lycans were very, very close to success.  The American...Michael.  For some reason, he was the key.  Corvinus….  Just like Marcus.

Did this lycan conspiracy extend to him as well?  Perhaps.  He just didn't have enough information.  Amelia would be here soon enough, though…for surely someone must have seen the man-beast sneak into the Crypt, or at least the evidence of it.  Surely he didn't have long to wait….  Surely?

**

The midnight black limousine pulled up beside the ancient mansion long known as Ordoghaz, the Devil's House.  Those who stood outside to greet it were filled with both anticipation and apprehension.  For all that they were the eldest remaining vampires of the European coven, Viktor's child and one time pupil was legendary for his strength in battle and his quicksilver temper.  Hence the shadows; men and women draped in black leather and trained for centuries in the martial arts.  The Death Dealers were on hand to handle things if either side happened toward violence.

It should have been an honor, thought Gerald, gazing through the tinted window of the limo.  He was the eldest vampire awake now, the heir to Viktor's throne.  It was his duty to perform Marcus' Awakening.  Only he and a few others truly knew the way of it.  Knew how to channel a lifetime of memories into a form the Elder could comprehend.  It should have been an honor, and they should be welcoming him with relief and gratitude.  Yet these sniveling weaklings trembled at the very thought of him.  It mattered little.  Once his task was performed, he would return to his seclusion.  This century was so trying, so quick moving….  But the vampire was a master at adaptation.  It had to be, in order to survive the millennia.  Gerald would ease himself into it slowly, and savor the new cultures that had arisen from the ashes of civilizations long gone.

As the driver opened the door, Gerald could overhear the gasps of decadent aristocrats, and could almost sense the tension in the Death Dealers.  They weren't prepared for his appearance.  Why should they be?  He'd had no reason to show himself for ages, not since his falling out with Viktor.  But he did not hide his face.  The scars he bore were a brutal reminder to all present of just what he was.  The steel armor was a reminder of what he lived for.  He was a warrior.  And there was no vampire now living who had ever bested him.

"L-lord Gerald," blubbered one, a beautiful man who more than likely had the brain of a tit mouse.  Vampire aristocrats were all the same, all appearance and flash, with nothing to back it up.  "It's an honor, truly," he continued, offering his hand in the age old gesture of peace.  _I have no weapons_, he said, without saying a word.

Gerald couldn't help but sneer slightly at the man.  _If it is such an honor, why are you all running scared?, he mused.  No, not an honor at all.  A necessity.  They would have left him to his isolation if there had been but one among them who was capable of performing the ceremony.  Gerald ignored the proffered hand, brushed by the throng of sniveling aristocrats, and entered into the mansion proper._

_Decadent_, he thought.  There was no other word for the overstated opulence of the great hall.  Those who dwelled here had likely never known struggle, or seen war first-hand.  They were unworthy of being called vampires.  They were little better than lycans, in fact, their one-time guardians turned fierce rivals.  Some days he thought they were more undeserving even, for at least the lycans showed their fangs.  But those days were few and far between.

It had been more than a century since he'd been inside Ordoghaz, and underneath the trappings of debauchery and the addition of modern technology, it hadn't changed at all.  He certainly didn't need the pitiful cretins who called themselves vampires to show him the way to the Crypt, or point out Marcus' resting place.  He had been a frequent visitor here, in the past.  Until the day Viktor had taught him a lesson he'd never forget.  After that day, Gerald had left the mansion, thinking that he'd never return.  And now Viktor was dead.  He didn't know if it was odd that he felt no grief.  The Elder had given him the gift of immortality, had taught him and guided him for more than a thousand years.  And yet some things were unforgivable.

He was saddened by Amelia's death, but moreover, he was angered.  She had been like a mother to him, once upon a time, just as Viktor had been like his father.  Though she hadn't really been that much older than him, Gerald had always looked up to her.  She'd possessed the immortal grace that the aristocrats in the mansion could never hope to possess in ten thousand years.  And she had a quick mind.  She'd been a princess once upon a time, schooled in history and art, mathematics and warfare.

Gerald's fist clenched as he thought about her death.  Ripped apart by rabid, slobbering, mangy man-beasts…and helped by Kraven, the vampire Viktor had trusted to run the European coven while he slumbered.  Blood welled from cuts made by his sharpened fingernails as he thought about the fate that awaited the traitor.  Vengeance would be sweet, and slow torture so much sweeter.

Somehow, lost in thought, his feet still remembered the way to the Crypt, and Gerald found himself at the glass doors that indicated the entrance.  One glance at the man behind the monitor screens and the doors opened.  He stood before the bronze locking mechanism that sheltered the Elder's coffin, then knelt and twisted the stylized M.  Gerald could smell traces of blood on the floor of the room, which he could only guess came from some prisoner Viktor had tortured.  The Elder warrior was always big on that kind of thing.  It had an odd tang to it though…lycan blood perhaps.

_It matters not, for now.  _Gerald had to concentrate now, to focus the memories of what had passed since Marcus had last reigned.  It was a simple enough procedure: focus the thoughts, organize them chronologically, and transmit them to the blood.  Yet it took more concentration than most vampires could muster in their long lifetimes.

A final click and Marcus' coffin was rising from its resting place.  The Elder looked much better than he had any right to, after two hundred years.  Gerald pressed the release mechanism and rotated the coffin so that it was parallel to the floor, exposing the tube that would carry his blood and memories to the Elder.  Gerald cleared his mind of everything except the past events as Marcus should view them.  He then drew a finely crafted silver dagger from its sheath and slit his wrist, allowing the blood to drip into the collector.  He traced its path down the length of tubing and finally into Marcus' mouth.

The ceremony was complete.  Now, all that remained to do was wait until the blood took effect and the Elder awoke to reign once again.


	3. Challenges

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, you guys are absolutely terrific!  I'm very sorry it's taken me so long to update, but real life dictated that I take finals.  Meh.  The next part should be out much faster.  I'll try very, very hard, at any rate.

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Derek grunted under the combined weight of the corpses he dragged behind him.  _Damned Bloods, _he thought, kicking a mutilated body out of his path.  The tunnels were littered with the remnants of vampire and lycan warriors.  There was an arm here, a torso there…and blood everywhere, dripping down brick walls and swirling in viscous puddles.

_Let the Bloods rot here.  They brought this on themselves.  Derek didn't look back; he'd seen the carnage many times during his numerous trips down the tunnel to retrieve his fallen comrades.  So many of his pack…just gone.  So many…he'd known them for centuries…and he'd never see them again._

A savage kick launched a severed vampire head against the tunnel wall.  Derek heard a satisfying plunk as gravity worked its magic, splashing sewage on his thigh.  He ignored it, continuing his slow, methodical pace toward the abandoned subway station where the remaining members of the pack awaited.

The physical labor had eased his mind slightly, but it had reopened his many small wounds.  Bite marks and deep scratches seeped blood, leaving him with only pleasant, tingling warmth.  He'd long ago learned how to force his body to perceive pain in that way, so as not to debilitate him when it mattered, a lesson which had served him well in the last few days.

_A lycan a full foot taller than him lunged forward, claws extended.  Derek sidestepped smoothly, allowing his opponent to rush past him.  But five hundred pounds of pure animal instinct wouldn't be deterred so easily, as his challenger changed course, using his forward momentum to make a dive for Derek's legs.  His vision reddened as claws found and tore flesh.  "First blood to Remy Garroux," called out Shred, the mediator for the match.  Derek recovered quickly from Remy's assault, and viciously counterattacked.  Derek's open handed blow caught the other lycan across the stomach, cutting deeply enough to give Derek a glimpse of slimy innards._

_Blood flowed freely from their wounds, which would soon cause them to tire.  Derek knew he had to finish his rival quickly, lest he lose his ever so slight advantage.  In battle, a person's luck could change in less than a second.  Even in a traditional battle to establish dominance it wasn't unheard of for there to be fatalities.  Death was a very rare occurrence though, as lycans were notoriously quick healers._

_Derek growled low in his throat as he gazed up at his opponent from a safe distance.  Remy was lager and more muscular than him, but Derek was much faster.  In a fight to third blood, sometimes agility and wit won more battles than brute strength.  Derek's sides heaved, but he forced himself to concentrate.  There!__  His challenger was favoring his left leg.  He must have wrenched it when he dove, _thought Derek_._

_He let his lupine instincts take over as he circled his target.  Remy had known too many battles and was too experienced a fighter to let Derek get behind him…which was exactly what Derek had counted on.  When the rival lycan shifted his weight to his injured leg, Derek lunged.  It was over in less than an eye blink.  Derek's jaws sank into the meat of his opponent's shoulder and his claws grazed Remy's back._

_"Third blood to Derek Constantine," called Shred.  "We have a new leader, proven in combat…unless there are more challengers?"_

_No one spoke.  Derek almost sighed in relief.  He had been in nine other matches today before this last one against Remy, and he was ready for it to end.  He was ready to sleep for a week, too, but the pack was regarding him expectantly, waiting for him to give them orders, to fill them with purpose.  For six hundred years they had fought to bring retribution to the Bloods, seeking revenge on Lucien's behalf.  They owed it to him for freeing them, for taking care of them, for leading them.  For teaching them to survive on their own, and allowing them to realize that they weren't inferior to anyone._

_The deaths of Lucien and the vampire Elder didn't really change anything.  The war wasn't over…and the lycans had to be prepared for another attack._

_With practiced ease, Derek slipped into his human form.  It was like putting on a well-worn set of clothes.  It was comfortable, but not as satisfying as being naked, as being the true, primal self.  Derek's olive eyes gazed out at the sea of faces around him.  He was silent a moment, drawing all attention to him.  He prayed for the strength to be a great leader, like Lucien._

_"Nothing has changed," he began, projecting his voice so that it echoed in the soul of every lycan present.  "We are still hunted, and therefore we must still be ready to meet the vampires in battle.  But we will not make it easy for them.  They have found our den, so we cannot remain here much longer.  But before we leave, we must honor those who have fallen here, who have given their lives to protect the rest of us.  There are brothers and sisters we will never see again._

_"I'll need volunteers to gather the bodies of our fallen comrades, so that we can lay them to rest."_

_A few men stepped forward, warriors, for the most part.  Men who had watched friends and family die.  Derek nodded to each one, then turned and headed in the direction of the tunnels, ignoring the fatigue from the night's challenges.  He could rest later.  Much later.  For now…he had a responsibility to fulfill._


	4. Dreams and decisions

Disclaimer:  I don't own Underworld, and I don't own the characters created for the movie.  The plot is mine, and Gerald and Derek are mine.  That's all for now.

A/N:  So sorry it's been so long.  I've been busy with school stuff, and it's been majorly stressful.  But hey, upside is, there's a new part!  And here it is!  Read and review, please J

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Michael dreamed.  It was the first time since he had become what he was.  He tossed and turned fitfully as images of Sonja and Lucien flashed before him.  He'd seen the worst of it before, when he'd been sick and hallucinating after he'd been bitten.  What he saw now were images of a love that had lasted for years…before the Elder had destroyed it.  They were scenes of contentment, of two lovers walking through a field at dusk, hunting together, and making love to each other.  He missed that sensation desperately.  His wife…but she was gone.  He'd watched her die.  What he felt for Selene…it was a pale flame compared to the inferno of that ancient love.  Perhaps it would grow, given time.

Michael moaned as his dreams turned violent.  The moon called to him, urging him—no, the beast—to hunt.  To feel bones snap and muscle tear, to taste hot blood as the life drained from helpless prey.  He might be a hybrid, but he was lycan first, and that would always be the stronger side of his nature.  It could be that was why he felt so responsible for the decimated lycans.  Lucien's memories urged him to take command, but Michael wasn't ready for that.  The responsibility of ensuring the welfare of an entire species….

The moon called again, and his skin prickled.  He dreamed he was in a dark chamber with a throne at one end and three metal seals imbedded in the marble floor.  Each was intricately wrought, and emblazoned with a different letter.  A, V…M.  Marcus.  Michael could feel his pulse quicken as he realized what this room was.  The Crypt.  Where the ancients slumbered when they did not rule, and ruled when they did not slumber.  Yet now only one remained….

Blood pooled on the intricate seals, and drained into the area beneath them.  Drained into the mouth of the last Elder, who opened his eyes.  And Michael dreamed that they bore an uncanny similarity to his own.  They were the eyes of a hybrid.

Michael awoke with a start, soaked in sweat.  His flesh felt unnaturally cool and clammy to the touch.  He had to know if he had dreamed truly, or if it was just the result of stress.  He glanced over at Selene, who, despite her desire to stand guard, had fallen asleep in the chair opposite the door.  Even in sleep she looked coolly in control.  Michael smiled sadly as he gently lifted her onto the bed.  Intellectually, he knew that she couldn't feel the cold like he did, but he covered her with the blanket nonetheless.

There was only one window in the room, and it faced the darkened street two floors below, ideal for viewing passers-by and keeping watch for any who might wish them harm.  Michael turned the chair to face the narrow window and sat down, watching the rain drizzle down.

He was deeply disturbed by his dreams.  The visions of Lucien and Sonja he knew to be true, actual flashes of their past together…but the dreams of Marcus, the slumbering Elder?  It seemed impossible.  Although he didn't know much about vampires, he had never seen any evidence to suggest that they were telepathic.  And yet he had dreamed in such perfect detail, it had not felt at all like a dream.  If he closed his eyes, he could still see the blood-soaked seal in his mind.  It hadn't felt like a dream, but it hadn't felt like a memory either.  However, if it _had happened, and there was another hybrid in the world, Michael would soon have a powerful ally…or an unbeatable enemy._

Michael knew they couldn't hide in this place forever, constantly watching their backs, and he was slowly coming to the realization of what that meant for him.  Sometimes he could almost hear Lucien in his mind, pressuring him to lead.  _Fine,_ he thought forcefully at the mental apparition._  You want me to take control?  I'll start with this damn dream._

It was nearly daylight, a time when most of Ordoghaz slept, avoiding the deadly sun.  Perhaps he could find a way inside.

He looked regretfully at the sleeping vampires.  She's be pissed when she found out he'd gone off alone.  Fuck it.  It was time he started running his life again, instead of running for it.  Throwing on his days old, still damp clothing, Michael silently slipped from the safe house, taking care not to awaken Selene.  _Good thing I learned to drive a stick_, he thought as he hopped into the new Jag and sped off toward the Devil's House.


End file.
